A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz
by mapark
Summary: Another in the alphabet series, this time featuring Marco Lopez... and some others. One of Marco's hidden talents leads him in a new direction.
1. Chapter 1

A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz

mapark

 _ **The characters depicted in Emergency! are the property of Universal Studios/Mark VII Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters (and mistakes) are mine alone.**_

 _ **Many thanks to my beta-reader, who wishes to remain anonymous (whose efforts and advice I sincerely appreciate!)**_

Marco tugged at the collar of the formal attire, and adjusted his hat to match the rakish angle favoured by the leader. He flapped his right hand, then his left, limbering up the fingers for what experience told him would be a frustrating couple of hours. Still, he enjoyed playing, and the money from the wedding gig would come in handy for the repairs his car so desperately needed.

He just wished that, for a change, they could play jazz instead of mariachi music – but, privately, he didn't think any of the other members of the band capable of the wild flights of improvisation that was the hallmark of the best jazz.

"Okay, amigos, show time!" announced Juan Rodriquez, gesturing the other band members to precede him into the crowded and noisy ballroom, so he could make the grand entrance traditionally reserved for the leader of a band.

Marco exchanged a wry glance with his cousin Antonio, who shrugged and swung his violin up to his shoulder. "Here we go again," he muttered, as he slipped the mouthpiece into the trumpet.

Antonio chuckled. "Think of your car, and smile at the nice folks," he suggested, prodding Marco forward with his violin bow. "Hey, it could be worse. At least we get breaks."

E—E—E—E—E—E

 _This isn't a bad gig, as gigs go_ , Marco thought, pasting a smile on his face as he neatly evaded the clutching hands of a drunken bridesmaid on his way back to the bandstand after their break. _At least they're a halfway decent crowd._

"Oh my God!" shrieked a shrill female voice. "Somebody help!"

Marco whirled toward the sudden commotion on his right, and forced his way through the tight knot of people that had formed around an extremely pale and sweaty elderly man who'd collapsed on the dance floor.

"Move back and give him some room!" Marco commanded, switching almost automatically into rescue mode. He snatched the oversized sombrero off his head and thrust it into the hands of his astonished cousin. "Antonio, go find a phone, and call for an ambulance and the fire department. Tell them a man may be having a heart attack, then come back and tell me. Hurry!"

"Si," Antonio replied, giving a nod, then turning and pushing his way back through the crowd that had retreated all of three feet.

"Is there a doctor here?" Marco asked, swivelling his head back and forth before dropping to his knees beside the stricken man. He looked up at the distraught woman who had screamed and was now staring at him and wringing her hands. "Miss? I'm a firefighter with LA county. We've got an ambulance and some paramedics on the way, so there's nothing to worry about. Can you tell me what happened?"

She fell to her knees beside Marco, reached for the elderly man's hand, and stroked it gently, while casting him a weak smile. "Tio Vincenzo, don't worry." She turned to Marco. "This is my uncle Vincenzo. He was fine just a couple of minutes ago, then he just grabbed at his chest, moaned and fell to the ground."

Marco glanced around, seized a nearby chair, and tipped it over to form an inverted 'vee'. "Get me some cushions from one of those lounge chairs, and lay them on this chair," he directed one of the guests. He turned back to Vincenzo. "Hi. My name's Marco, and I'm gonna help you, okay?"

"Sure thing, young fella…man, this is… embarrassing."

Marco shook his head. "No need to feel embarrassed. Now we're gonna sit you up, and lean you against this chair, so it will help your breathing." Marco helped him sit up, then eased him back against the cushions. "Better?" he asked.

Vincenzo nodded. "Thanks," he mumbled, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. He grimaced, shook his head, and took a more shallow breath. "That's a little better. My chest hurts like hell, er… like heck," he replied.

The girl chuckled and squeezed his hand. "You don't have to guard your language around me anymore, Tio – I've been of age for _quite_ some time now. I _am_ a grown woman now, you know."

"Hah! You'll always be my sweet little _sobrina_ , no matter your age."

"Just try to take it as easy as you can, sir," Marco said. "I'm gonna take your tie off and loosen your clothing okay?"

Vincenzo nodded and reached for the tie, but Marco forestalled him.

"You just relax, and let me do the work. Help is on the way. How do you feel?"

Vincenzo gave a weak laugh. "Well I _could_ come up with a smart-ass answer like 'with my hands', but my chest hurts too much. Like lots of pressure, squeezing." He cleared his throat. "At least I can breathe better… good idea with the chair." He shifted slightly, a look of puzzlement on his face. "I don't get it, though. I was feeling just fine, listening to _real_ music instead of a record." He cast a glance as the girl, who shrugged and gave a sheepish grin, then continued. "We were dancing a bit… and then, all of a sudden, I felt light-headed and got this crushing pain in my chest."

"Is it any better at all?" Marco asked, slipping his fingers to Vincenzo's wrist to take a pulse.

Vincenzo blinked, frowned, and stared at Marco as if seeing him for the first time, his eyes lingering on the elaborate mariachi outfit. "You're the lead trumpet, aren't you?"

Marco paused in his counting, and gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Guilty as charged," he replied slowly, unsure about the elderly man's reaction.

Vincenzo relaxed a fraction. "Huh. Okay, imagine you're tensing up to go for a high D… you know what I mean?" he asked.

"Si," Marco replied. "Lots of push in the belly."

Vincenzo smiled, and squeezed his niece's hand. "Told you. Musicians speak a different language." He nodded at Marco. "You got it. Just put it in the chest instead of the belly, and that's what it feels like right now."

Over the hubbub of the crowd, Marco heard the welcome sound of a siren approaching, then suddenly ceasing. "Good. The paramedics are here, and they'll get you to the hospital really soon." He caught a glimpse of a pair of uniform shirts entering the room before the crowd surged and blocked his view of the responding paramedics. _Oh, I hope it's nobody I know, or I'll never hear the end of comments about these threads…_

He flashed a reassuring smile at Vincenzo, and stood up. "Hey, folks, please let the paramedics through!" he called. His smile became a sickly grin as the crowd pulled back and he saw Craig Brice and Bob Bellingham move forward with their equipment. _Dammit!_ He tried to ignore Bob's twinkling eyes and Craig's raised eyebrows as they set down their equipment next to Vincenzo, taking in Marco's emerald green finery. He cleared his throat, and tried to sound as professional as possible. "Uh… this is Vincenzo, and he's having chest pains. Pulse has gone down from 110 and thread ten minutes ago to about 96 a couple of minutes ago. Respiration has gone down from 24 and laboured to 18 and more easy, since we got him into this position."

Juan, who'd been hovering in the background, cleared his throat and tapped his watch. "Hey, Marco, we're overdue on the bandstand if you're done here. The music oughta help clear the crowd away, and give them something else to do beside gawk."

"Sure, Juan." Marco turned to the paramedics. "Do you guys need a hand with anything else?"

Brice scrutinized him from head to toe, then he pushed his glasses up his nose with his middle finger. "No, I think we can handle things here, Lopez." He pulled out the blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around Vincenzo's arm.

Vincenzo beckoned. "Hey, Marco, _mi amigo_." He held out his hand to the firefighter.

Marco crouched down and shook Vincenzo's hand.

Vincenzo tilted his head toward his niece. "Thank you… and could you do me a great favour? Could you play 'Desafinado' for my niece, Jasmine? It's her favourite, and I can tell from hearing your playing before that you've got the chops for it."

Marco grinned. "One of my favourites, too. I'll ask the bandleader if we could do it now, so you can hear, too." He straightened up, gave Jasmine a wink, then threaded his way through the crowd back to the bandstand.

Craig wrote the vital signs in his notebook, then asked, "Sir, has anything like this ever happened before?"

Vincenzo exhaled slowly around the oxygen mask Bob had put in place. "Nothing quite like this before. I've had a couple of little twinges before, but they went away, so I didn't think anything of them." He drew a breath, and grimaced. "This one is hanging on, though. It's better than earlier, right Jas?" he said, nudging his niece, when he notice her eyes were focused on Marco's retreating posterior.

She blushed, but nodded, turning her attention back to her uncle and ignoring Bob's smirk as he followed the direction of her eyes. "Yeah. He was practically grey when he first went down, and really sweaty and breathing hard, but that seems to be better now."

Bob opened Vincenzo's shirt and began attaching cardiac leads. "We're gonna call the hospital and get a doctor on the line while we wait for the ambulance to get here."

Craig asked, "Sir, how old are you?"

"I'm 58, young fellah. Old enough to dance, but not so old to _not_ dance, if you get my drift." He lifted his head and smiled broadly as the strains of 'Desafinado' soared over the noise of the crowd. "Hah! I _knew_ he could do it. That man has talent… pity, though. That young man would shine in a proper jazz combo, instead of this insipid mariachi stuff in a wedding band. I wonder if he's in any other bands…" He squeezed his niece's hand, both of them missing the startled look that Bob shot Craig as the tune quickened in pace and the crowd started moving toward the dance floor. Bob raised his eyebrows in a question; Craig pursed his lips, and nodded slowly. He mouthed 'You take care of it,' Bob gave a decisive nod, then both turned their attention to their patient.

\- A to Z and then some - J is for Jazz -


	2. Chapter 2

A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz

mapark

 _ **The characters depicted in Emergency! are the property of Universal Studios/Mark VII Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters (and mistakes) are mine alone.**_

Chapter 2

Marco hummed to himself as he chopped the vegetables for the Irish stew. He slid them off the cutting board and into the stoneware sleeve of the slow cooker his cousin had insisted he try out. He was curious to see if it worked as well at the station, with the constant chance of interruption, as it had at home.

Chet peered over his partner's shoulder, his expression curious. "Isn't it a bit early to be cooking? I mean, it's only ten o'clock in the morning."

Marco pulled a bunch of carrots toward him and began chopping them. "That's the beauty of this thing – just toss everything into it, and leave it alone for about eight to ten hours, and everything's done to perfection."

"Huh. You know, it would be really embarrassing to burn down our own station when we're out on a call, not to mention destroying your reputation for the best Irish stew in town," Chet mumbled, snagging a carrot and munching on it.

Marco put down his knife and glared at Chet. "Don't you do _any_ cooking? Slow cookers have been around for years. I'm not gonna burn down the station, and I'm not gonna burn the food. It will be ready between six and seven, I figure. And even if we do get a call, the cooker won't burn things. You'll see – pretty soon everyone will be using it."

Chet snorted. "I'll wait and see about that." He headed to the table to pick up the paper, but changed direction as the phone rang. "I wonder if it's that waitress I met the other day," he mused, picking up the phone. "Station 51, Fireman Kelly here." He listened, his hopeful smile sliding off his face. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we _do_ have a Marco here… but maybe _I_ can help you, miss."

Marco tossed the knife to the cutting board, and hurried to the phone. "Give me that," he growled, reaching for the receiver.

"It's a _girl_ ," Chet whispered loudly, to the amusement of those sitting at the table.

"Whatsa matter, Chet?" Johnny quipped. "Are you so unfamiliar with girls that you gotta lose your wits when you hear a feminine voice?"

"Gimme the phone," Marco repeated, reaching for it as Chet turned around, holding the receiver out of Marco's reach. Marco twisted the receiver from Chet's grasp, and scowled.

"We expect a full report, Marco," Chet replied with a smirk, snatching the newspaper up from the table as he went past it.

"Hello? This is Marco Lopez…" A smile lit up his face. "Of _course_ I remember you. How's your uncle?'

"Details!" Chet said in a loud stage whisper.

Marco turned to face the wall, trying to keep the conversation as private as possible... and utterly failing as the others crowded to the edge of the table, cocking their heads towards him. "Uh, look… why don't I give you a call tomorrow, when I'm off shift?" He grinned, and rummaged in his pockets for something to write on.

"Here," Roy mouthed, handing over a notebook and a pen.

"Thanks," Marco whispered. He listened, then jotted down a telephone number. "Okay, Jasmine, I'll talk to you tomorrow." His smile widened, he nodded, and then chuckled. "Okay… Jazz, then… I'm glad your uncle is okay… what?... Sure, that sounds like fun. See you tomorrow. Bye."

"Earth to Marco…. Earth to Marco," Chet intoned, abandoning the paper in favour of teasing his partner. He planted himself squarely in front of the taller lineman, his balled fists pressed against his waist. "Well? Who's Jasmine?"

Marco tore the page out of the notebook and folded it over so none of the approaching men could see what he'd written. "She's a girl."

Chet rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Yeah, we'd figured that out. Sheesh – where'd you meet her? What does she look like? Does she have a friend? Deee-tails!"

Marco tucked the note in his pocket and pushed past Chet to get back to the counter in the kitchen. He picked up the knife, only to have Chet pull on his sleeve. "Chet!" he protested, yanking his arm from the other man's grip. "Fine. I met her at a wedding yesterday. Satisfied?"

"No way," Chet replied, handing Marco another carrot. "That's not detailed – if you met her yesterday, why is this chick callin' you here, at the station?"

Marco shrugged. "Didn't get a chance to give her my number yesterday."

"What the hell were you doing that you couldn't give her your number?" Chet scooped up the chopped carrots and tossed them into the pot. He peered into the pot. "There's no lamb – you can't have an Irish stew without lamb."

Marco opened the fridge, and pulled out a bag of cubed meat. "Feel better now?" he asked, pulling out a frypan to brown the meat.

Chet folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back against the counter. "Nope. Quit changing the subject. This girl, her name is 'Jas'?"

Marco sighed. "I don't wanna discuss that," he said dumping the meat into a pan with seasoned flour. "I was… busy, okay?"

"Doin' what?" Chet persisted.

Marco cast a glance over his shoulder at the table where the captain was reading the sports section of the newspaper, and sipping a cup of coffee. He beckoned Chet closer, "I was moonlighting," he whispered.

"At what job?"

"Tell ya later," Marco said in a soft voice.

"Chet, are those latrines cleaning themselves?" Hank asked, his eyes never leaving the newspaper spread out on the table in front of him.

"Uh, right, Cap," Chet mumbled. He headed to his task, pausing to answer the phone that had just rung again. "Station 51, Fireman Kelly…. Yeah, he's here. Marco, it's for you… _again_. Man, you need a social secretary or something, with all these calls today."

"Kelly!"

"I'm goin', Cap, I'm goin'!" Chet hurried out of the room.

Marco frowned, and dusted his hands off on his apron. "I wonder who it could be?"

"You could try answering the phone and find out," Johnny suggested.

Roy slid over to the pan and continued working on the meat. "I'll toss these into the pot when they're done, Romeo."

Marco winced. "Thanks… I think." He picked up the phone. "Marco Lopez here." He listened intently, his expression shifting from surprise to puzzlement, to contemplation and finally to satisfaction. He nodded. "Okay, I'll do it. It sounds interesting… When do you wanna meet, and where?" He pulled the paper from his pocket, grinned at the number he'd written there, then picked up a pencil and scribbled some information down. "All right, see you then…. What?... Yeah, three of them, for different styles…. Sure, I'll do that. Thanks, and see you tomorrow afternoon."

Marco pursed his lips, tapped the paper, and hung up the phone. He turned around to meet stares from five pairs of eyes. "What?" he asked, shrugging as he refolded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket.

"Three of what?" Johnny asked, uncurling from his spot on the couch and standing up, crossing his arms.

Mike reached over and pinched Marco's cheek. "Our little boy is growing up and becoming quite the social butterfly."

Marco's cheeks reddened, and he stalked back over to the stove. Nodding his thanks to Roy, he finished browning the meat, saying nothing.

Chet strolled back into the room. "What did I miss?" he asked.

Marco tossed the meat into the stoneware, added some broth and put on the lid. "You didn't miss anything, Chet."

"Huh – first ya got girls callin' you here at the station, and now you've got _guys_ calling, too." Chet remarked.

Johnny jerked his thumb towards Marco. "That wasn't a _girl_?" he asked, turning slowly. "Is there something you need to tell us, Marco?" he asked with a grin.

"It was a friend calling, to arrange something for tomorrow, all right?" Marco twisted the dial on the pot, then turned to glare at Johnny. "Does any of this concern _you_?" he snapped.

"Only if he has a sister…" Johnny began, before the tones interrupted.

They scrambled toward the bay, their expressions becoming grim at the number of units being called out.

 _ **Station 16, Station 51, Truck 127, Battalion 14, Engine 45, Squad 8 in place of Squad 45, Deluge 3. Structure fire at the warehouse, 29873 Davis, 2-9-8-7-3 Davis, cross-street Hacienda. Time out 10:39.**_

At the district map, Mike nudged Johnny as they sought the location deep in Station 16's district. "Look, there it is. It's probably best to cut around the construction on the south access."

Johnny nodded, tapping the map. "Yeah. Brice would know for sure – they're probably been in that area before. I'll call Bellingham once we're on the road."

****J is for Jazz****

"Yeah, Bob – thanks." Johnny changed the frequency of the HT. "Squad 51 to Engine 51. Cap, tell Mike he was right – the south access to the warehouse is under construction and you can't get there from the road. We'll have to come in from the northwest instead, off Cedar. We should be at the turnoff to Cedar in about six minutes."

"10-4, Squad 51. We'll follow you in."

As they approached the detour, they could see several construction vehicles parked along the route leading to the main entrance of the warehouse. The scene was controlled chaos. With the main gate inaccessible because of the construction vehicles, they were forced to drive through the narrow northwest entrance from Cedar, which was now clogged with fire apparatus trying to negotiate the tricky curving driveway.

Following the squad, Mike navigated the engine over a network of hoses to a small opening by the driveway leading to the main entrance of the warehouse. Hank slid from his seat and out of the engine, slamming the door. "Wait here until I get our assignment, fellas." He trotted over to the command area and spoke to the battalion chief. He peered down at the fireground plan, tracing his finger along the route the chief indicated, and looked up at the building, squinting in the sun reflected from the windows of the retail store at the main entrance to the warehouse.

He gave a nod, then trotted back to the engine and squad. "Okay, here's what we've got. There's a fire in the warehouse, mostly near the southeast corner past all those display windows at the store. We're to lay a supply line for the hydrant near the corner, to supply Engine 45, then pull a couple of inch-and-a-halfs to work that section. Gage, DeSoto, they're pretty sure that everyone's out of the retail store, but they're missing a man from the warehouse section just beside it. Straight in, straight out, okay? Fast as you can."

"Got it, Cap," Johnny replied, as Roy pulled the squad around and headed toward the entrance. "Boy, they sure aren't makin' this easy," he observed, gripping the outside mirror as the squad jounced on the gravel bed of the torn-up main driveway to the business.

"Yeah," Roy agreed. "Mike's gonna love getting the scratches off Big Red from all this loose gravel."

Hank climbed back in the engine, and Mike pulled the engine around to follow the squad up the pathway, then skidded to a stop as a muffled rumble followed by a loud explosion ripped through the air.

The main doors to the warehouse shuddered, burst outward and shattered as a fireball shot forward and engulfed the squad in flames.

\- A to Z and then some - J is for Jazz -


	3. Chapter 3

A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz

mapark

 _ **The characters depicted in Emergency! are the property of Universal Studios/Mark VII Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters (and mistakes) are mine alone.**_

 _ **Once again, a huge thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, who gives me the best suggestions (and wishes to remain anonymous).**_

Chapter 3

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Roy jerked the wheel to the side, pulling the squad around in an impossibly tight U-turn to avoid the surge of flames bursting through the doors. His eyes widened as the squad was pelted with a number of small fiery canisters that bounced off, leaving a trail of blistered paint on the hood.

"Let's get outta here!" Johnny urged, pulling his arm in and wincing at the stinging pain on his face from the sparks that flew back from the hood of the vehicle. He ducked as there was another explosion from within the store and more canisters came jetting their way.

Roy had already twisted around, looking for a safe passage through the flying debris. "Way ahead of you. Hold on!" He floored the squad, zigzagging through the hail of flaming projectiles, pulling up next to the engine, where the captain was half out of the vehicle, clinging to the door frame as he stared, transfixed, at the emerging inferno.

Clouds of black and grey smoke trailed the initial burst of projectiles, rolling like waves toward them, burning their eyes and throats with an acrid sensation. More clouds climbed into the sky, creating pillars of darkness, blotting out the sun.

They all gaped at the damaged hood of the squad. Bubbles of charred paint marred the once-pristine surface, and there were dark streaks criss-crossing the hood.

"Are you both okay?" Hank demanded, dropping down from the engine and hurrying toward the squad.

Johnny brushed the sleeve of his turnouts with the back of his other hand. "Nothing major," he mumbled, leaning over to examine his face in the mirror.

Roy nodded, his eyes wide and haunted. "Yeah, we're fine… but what the _hell_ was that?"

"I don't know, but I'm damn well gonna find out," Hank asserted in a no-nonsense tone as he lifted the handie-talkie to his lips. "Battalion 14, Engine 51. There has been an explosion at the south entrance of the retail store, with flaming airborne projectiles some 200 feet in a wide-spray pattern. There appears to be some kind of liquid fuel involved. This exposure is fully-involved and unapproachable at the moment."

"10-4, Engine 51. Battalion 14 to all units. Be advised that the south side of the building contains… _are you kidding_?... stand by."

When the chief came back on the radio a moment later, his voice shook with barely suppressed fury and disgust. "All units on the south side of the building, disengage! Pull back… pull back… pull back! We have a combination of crates of lighter fluid next to crates of fireworks."

His expression grim, Hank climbed back into the engine. "Get ready to roll," he said to Mike.

"You got it, Cap."

"Battalion 14 to Station 51. Report back to command for reassignment."

"Station 51, 10-4." Hank leaned out of the engine. "Let's move it, boys!" he called to Roy.

"Can't be soon enough for me," Roy muttered, ducking his head in reflex as another set of fiery missiles shot from the warehouse.

Hank turned back to his engineer. "Follow them out. I bet we'll be backing up 45's, so park where you can manoeuvre it to them. Of course, we'll let the chief make that call…"

Johnny peered out the windscreen at their damaged vehicle. "Man, Charlie is gonna have a _fit_."

"Maybe, but at least we're around to hear about it."

"Yeah, that was some amazing driving back there, partner." Johnny frowned slightly as he gazed at Roy's hands; his grip on the wheel was so tight that his knuckles were white. His face was set, his jaw tight, and he was staring straight ahead.

"Flashback to 'Nam?" Johnny asked, his tone as neutral as he could make it.

Roy hesitated before answering, pulling the vehicle over near the other parked fire apparatus. "Yeah." He sighed, relaxing his fingers from their death-grip on the wheel. "It's, uh…. It's not something I talk about."

A frown creased Johnny's forehead. "Didja wanna talk about it now… or any time? 'Cause I'll listen… and help any way I can, you know."

Roy nodded, his lips pursed together. "Yeah… not right now, though. We gotta get through today, okay?"

"Okay. But I'm gonna hold you to that later."

"Yeah, I expect you will." Roy exhaled slowly, then inhaled deeply, chasing the demons away for the moment. "Thanks."

Johnny turned a morose gaze on the damaged hood. "Man, Charlie'd better not try to blame us on this one." He cast a sly look at his partner. "'Course, he'd blame you, not me – _you're_ the driver."

"Hey!" Roy protested, a ghost of a smile emerging on his face.

"I'm just sayin', he won't be blaming _me_."

"Me neither – who could predict they'd be _stupid_ enough to store fireworks next to lighter fluid, anyway?"

Following the squad's hasty retreat, Mike wove the engine through the ever-increasing billows of smoke, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. "Idiotic, moronic, stupid, senseless, asinine JERKS!" He stared ahead, grim-faced, his eyes darting from the windshield to his mirrors, and wrenched the wheel abruptly to the left, avoiding another series of shells shooting past the engine.

"Everyone okay?" Hank shouted, turning in his seat to check on his linemen.

"Yeah!" Chet shouted back. "But it ain't fair when the fire attacks _us_!"

Mike pulled the rig to a halt behind the squad, folded his arms and leaned his elbows on the steering wheel as he stared at the conflagration in the mirror. "Ho-lee shit," he breathed.

"You said it, pal," Hank agreed, his eyes riveted on the side mirror, watching streaks of light rocketing through the opening that had at one time been a series of double entry doors into the retail store. He opened the door and patted the side of the engine as he slid out and slammed the door. "Take her outta here if you need to; I'm gonna check with the chief."

"Nice drivin', Mike," Chet said after letting out a slow whistle.

Mike gave a soft snort. "Not as good as Roy – after _that_ performance, I think he's ready for Daytona or Indianapolis."

"Or Formula 1," Marco added. "That turn at the entrance…. Just like Emerson Fittipaldi."

Chet frowned. "Yeah, but I bet he never had to dodge fireworks."

Marco huffed. "Clearly, you've never watched Formula 1."

"Why would I wanna watch a bunch of Europeans driving race cars, when we got plenty of American drivers at NASCAR? I'll never understand why Mario Andretti decided to drive there instead of NASCAR. "

Marco cast him a surprised look. "Uh, because it's more interesting and challenging than driving around and around an oval track. Talk about boring!"

Mike swiveled in his seat and cleared his throat before Chet could reply. "Fellas, before this degenerates into another pointless argument, can we get our minds back on business?" He gestured toward Captain Stanley, heading back to them, bouncing his handie-talkie in his hand. His expression was stormy. Mike shrugged, and they all left the engine to meet the captain.

Johnny nudged Roy and pointed at the others. "Shall we join them, or did you want a minute or two to regroup?" he said softly.

"Better join them – it looks like Cap isn't too happy."

"Yeah? I'm not exactly grinnin' ear to ear… What kind of a moron stores fireworks next to lighter fluid?" Johnny jumped down, shaking his head in disbelief.

Hank sighed and beckoned them over. "Hey, fellas, listen up. As soon as this little rocket show finishes, we're going to back up 45's at the west side of the warehouse. Stoker, you'll need to lay a supply line to Engine 45 – some jackass damaged the warehouse connections when they dumped that load of illegal fireworks in the back. Apparently, they were doing a customer a 'favor' by storing them over the weekend, and they would have been moved in a couple of days."

"Hah!" snorted Chet. "Where have we heard _that_ before?" He tapped his lips with his gloved finger. "Let's see… that garage fire last July, when that guy said he was storing things for his brother-in-law…"

"Or the one in August, when it was 'such a small bit of chemicals, I didn't think it would need special storage'?" Marco added.

Chet grimaced, "Oh, yeah, _that_ one was fun… Took all of three hours, and then he whined that we made a mess of his swimming pool."

Hank turned to Roy and Johnny. "At least they found that missing man. He was in one of the shipping trucks, sleeping off whatever combination of recreational pharmaceuticals he'd had for breakfast." There was a bitter, sarcastic edge to his voice, and he tapped the handie-talkie against his hand. "I hate waiting for it to burn without trying to put it out," he growled.

Chet agreed. "It's not natural to just hang around while things go up in smoke like that. Think they've learned something about storing fireworks?"

"I doubt it. It's kinda hard to cure stupidity," Hank remarked. He thumbed the handie-talkie. "Engine 51 to Engine 45. What's your 20?"

"Engine 45 to Engine 51. We've moved to the far west exposure, just around the corner from the second driveway."

"10-4, Engine 45. Engine 51 on the way."

~~E~~

Mike pulled the engine close enough to Engine 45 to set the supply line, but not so close that it interfered with the arrival of more apparatus from an additional alarm. Roy pulled the squad ahead of the engine, and they started unloading the air tanks, sure that they'd be needing them before this was all over.

And yet, they still waited. They all felt the frustration of letting things burn until it was safe to extinguish the blaze; nerves began to fray as they awaited the 'go-ahead' from the battalion chief to proceed. They paced, the weight of their protective gear adding to the general sense of annoyance. Chet pulled off his gloves and stared at his watch.

"Great. We've been farting around here for nearly twenty minutes now without doin' _anything_." He slapped his gloves against his thigh, shaking his head.

"Hey, we could always argue the merits of auto racing again," Marco suggested, loosening the harness holding his air tank in place and rolling his shoulders to ease a cramp in his back.

Another series of explosions caught their attention. This time, the fireworks shot upward, then spouted into showering sparks in a rainbow of colours. Several burst a second time, adding more smoke to the air.

It was merely luck that Mike happened to be looking away from the warehouse and spotted the emerging danger before anyone else. Sparks from the latest explosion had travelled in a sudden wind, and drifted toward a series of rusty sheds behind them. A sudden popping sound caught his attention, and his eyes widened as one of the sheds began a violent vibration.

"Everyone down!" he shouted, rushing forward to tackle his captain, whose unprotected back was in a direct line of a series of missiles that launched themselves forward as the shed exploded. His momentum carried him into a roll past the captain, and he grunted as a streak of fire creased the side of his face before crashing into the side of the engine.

\- A to Z and then some - J is for Jazz -


	4. Chapter 4

A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz

mapark

 _ **The characters depicted in Emergency! are the property of Universal Studios/Mark VII Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters (and mistakes) are mine alone.**_

 _ **Many thanks to my super beta-reader, who catches my inconsistencies, and gives me great suggestions!**_

Chapter 4

"Dammit!" Mike swore, twisting to glimpse the damage to the engine. "You okay, Cap?" he asked, grimacing as he struggled to rise.

Hank pushed himself to his elbows and knees and groaned. "Yeah. You ever play football, Mike? 'Cause you've got one helluva tackle." He sat back on his haunches and exhaled forcefully, looking around.

Mike sucked in a breath between teeth clenched against the searing pain along his cheek, rose to his knees and reached up to touch his face, when Hank seized his hand in mid-air.

"DeSoto!" the captain shouted. He schooled his features to hide the shock he felt as he looked at his engineer's face, but he couldn't control the sudden pallor of his own face.

The projectile had been a searing-hot piece of shrapnel that had both sliced and burned Stoker's face. Blood welled to the surface along the jagged, blistered edges of the skin, and Hank clamped his jaw and forced down his nausea at the sight.

Roy turned his shell-shocked gaze from the smoking shed to the engine and grimaced. "Aw, jeez… Johnny, get the biophone and drug kit. I'll get the burn kit and the trauma box," he snapped, shaking his head and trying to collect his thoughts.

Johnny whirled. "What?" His eyes followed the direction of Roy's gaze, and his jaw dropped. "Oh, crap… Mike, don't move!" he called as he scrambled to get the equipment, ducking another wave of projectiles from the shed.

Roy mechanically tightened his chin strap, then grabbed the burn kit and trauma box, and ran toward Mike. The kits thudded down on the ground as he reached the injured man. "Mike, I want you to just lie still for a bit. Cap, can you get him down?" Roy fumbled with the straps on his air tank, letting out a soft curse and a sigh as he freed himself of the encumbering protection he wouldn't be needing for a while. He flipped open the lids on the trauma box and burn kit, and snatched some supplies.

As Hank eased his engineer to the ground, Roy slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, grabbed some dressings and daubed at the blood, avoiding the burned tissues. His jaw tightened as he was able to examine the burn and wound more closely and he tried not to call to mind some eerily similar injuries he'd dealt with a few years before, in Vietnam. _Dammit! I think I can see the cheekbone under all that blood._ "Mike, I need you to keep your hands away from your face. I know it hurts, but let us take care of it, all right?"

"Yeah," Mike ground out between his clenched teeth, resisting the urge to tear at the burning on his face. He squirmed restlessly.

Johnny knelt on one side, setting up the biophone. "You okay, Cap?" he asked, as he pulled off his mask and shrugged out of his air tank.

Hank nodded, relinquishing Mike's hand and standing up. "Yeah, thanks to Mike." He patted the engineer on the shoulder. "Hang in there, pal… and thanks again for the save."

Roy made a quick mental assessment of the damage as he discarded a soaked dressing. _Looks like second degree burns, but I'm worried about the depth of that cut. At least it's along his cheekbone, and the eye wasn't hit…_ "Johnny, can you hold his head still for a minute?"

"Chet, Marco, get a reel line on that!" Hank called, as the shed burst at its seams, spilling the remaining fireworks onto the parking lot. He pulled out his handie-talkie. "Engine 51 to Battalion 14. We have a number of small storage sheds here that also appear to contain fireworks. One has collapsed and is smouldering; we've got a reel line on it, and are wetting down the remainder. We have a code I at this location."

"10-4, 51. Do you need an ambulance?"

"That's affirmative, Battalion 14."

"10-4." The chief began issuing revised orders, deploying other units to hose down the sheds and contain any fires that sparked as a result of the continuing shower of fireworks from the warehouse.

Mike twisted his head from Johnny's hands, wincing as Roy placed saline-soaked gauze over his burning cheek. "I don't need an ambulance," he muttered, reaching up only to have Johnny restrain his hands while Roy continued pouring saline on the gauze.

"Aw, Mike, c'mon – let us do our job," Johnny coaxed, a cocky grin on his face as Mike glared at him, blinking without any difficulty. He flicked his penlight over the engineer's eyes, thankful for the normal pupil reactions. "Looks like his eyes are okay," he said to Roy with relief.

"Fine, then. Let me get up, and get on with my job," Mike retorted, fidgeting as Johnny continued to hold onto his hands.

"Right now, your job is to let us do _our_ job," Roy replied. "And it may have escaped your notice, but you _do_ have a burn on your face that needs immediate attention. You're damned lucky that thing didn't hit your eye."

Mike sighed, and forced himself to relax. "Okay. But I don't need an ambulance."

"Since when did _you_ become a paramedic?" Johnny mocked.

"It's just a burn – I've been burned before, and I'll probably be burned again. Kinda goes with the job," Mike replied. "It's not serious, is it?"

Roy's lips twisted. "Well… we think you need to see a doctor, just to be sure. And I know you probably don't feel it yet, but it _is_ more than a surface burn, so you'll need proper antibiotics at the least, and certainly some stitches."

" _Stitches_? For a burn?" Mike replied, twisting his head to stare at Roy.

Roy blew out a breath. He hated telling patients exactly what he was seeing, but he knew Mike wouldn't panic. "That's more than a burn, Mike. You got hit with a piece of shrapnel, and there's a pretty serious cut that we can't take care of it the way it needs to be treated, outside of a hospital."

"Great," Mike muttered sullenly. "Can't I at least sit up, and get out of the turnouts?"

Johnny shrugged. "Might as well – we're gonna have to start an IV, so they'll need to come off anyway."

Mike narrowed his eyes, scowling as much as the bandaging on his face would allow. With Johnny's assistance, he sat up, twisting his lips in dissatisfaction as he watched Roy set up an IV. He fumbled with the fastenings, then closed his eyes and slid the turnout coat off. He drew in a short breath and gulped against a sudden wave of nausea, then gave a slight nod as Johnny eased him back down to the ground. His Adam's apple bobbed and he clenched his jaw, drawing a shallow breath through his nose. _Dammit, I'm_ _ **not**_ _gonna puke!_

Johnny gave him a sympathetic glance, and picked up the handset of the biophone. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

At Rampart, Kelly Brackett did some scowling of his own. "Stand by, 51." He flipped the mic to the other channel and said, "Squad 16, send me an EKG and updated vitals."

"This is lead 2, Rampart," Craig Brice's disembodied voice replied. "Patient is now unconscious. Vital signs are unchanged."

Brackett studied the strip scrolling from the machine. "Looks like he's throwing PVCs. Start bilateral IVs, one with D5W and the other with Ringer's. Keep an eye on that monitor, and let me know if anything changes."

"10-4, Rampart."

Brackett finished jotting down some notes and handed a chart to a waiting nurse. "Set up treatment four for this one." He switched the mic back. "This is Rampart. Go ahead, 51."

Johnny reached for Roy's notebook. "Rampart, we have a male, age 35, with facial injuries due to shrapnel from an exploded firework. There is a deep wound approximately 3 inches long along the ridge of the cheekbone, with second degree burns along the edges of the wound. We have irrigated with saline and are about to dress the wound. Stand by for vitals."

Brackett crinkled his eyebrows. "Standing by, 51. Are the eyes and ears involved?"

"Stand by, Rampart." Johnny leaned over to look more closely at the wound. He held up two fingers in front of the eye near the wound. "How many fingers, Mike."

"Three… no, wait. Four," Mike replied, blinking.

Johnny flicked his gaze to Roy, then back to Mike. "Are you havin' any trouble hearing?"

Mike tried to shake his head, but was hampered by Roy's restraining hands on the side of his head. "Not really… I still hear a bit of echoing, but that's pretty normal, isn't it?"

"Pretty normal," Roy agreed. "Now hold still so I can get this bandage in place, okay?"

Johnny inflated the blood pressure cuff as Roy worked on the wound. He jotted the numbers down, and flicked another guarded glance at his partner, lifting his head slightly to silently convey an elevated blood pressure.

Roy gave a slight nod, and flashed a reassuring smile at Mike. "Looks pretty good, all things considered. How does it feel?"

Mike quirked an eyebrow at him. "It feels sort of like I got hit in the face with a firework."

"Any headache at all?"

"Not really. It's more than mildly irritating, but I don't think I'm ready for last rites."

"No," Johnny replied with a grin, "but you do need to take a trip to Rampart so they can make sure there isn't any other damage."

Mike scowled. "For a little burn like this?" he scoffed, digging his elbows into the ground and trying to sit up.

Roy held him down in place. "Let us do our job, Mike. I know you're only feeling the burn at the moment, but you're gonna need some stitches. That thing cut open your face."

"Great," the engineer muttered. "Peggy will have a fit."

Johnny picked up the handset. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

Brackett pulled a fresh chart. "Go ahead, 51."

"Rampart, patient has no headache, and there appears to be no physical damage to the ears or the eyes, although he is experiencing double vision. Vitals are… pulse 90, respiration 14 and regular. Blood pressure is 136 over 100."

Mike's expression grew more sullen as he listened to the description of his injuries. "I'm _not_ experiencing double vision," he protested.

Roy forced a grin. "If you don't have double vision, then you've forgotten how to count."

Mike blew him a raspberry, and shifted his shoulders, trying to ease a cramp in his neck. "Look, can I at least sit up?"

"Not just yet," Roy advised.

"Squad 51, how deep is the wound?" Brackett asked.

Johnny flicked a glance at Roy, who mouthed the word 'anatomical'. He gave a slight nod, and replied, "Rampart, the zygomatic area around the foramen is visible, but appears intact."

Brackett raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "10-4, 51. Start an IV with Ringer's TKO, and transport immediately. Use oxygen if needed, but avoid any pressure on that wound." He picked up the wall phone and dialled. "Carol? See who's available from plastic surgery. We've got a patient coming in who's probably going to need facial surgery for a fireworks injury…. Thanks…. Oh, and see if there's an OR available, too."

\- A to Z and then some - J is for Jazz -


	5. Chapter 5

A to Z and then some: J is for Jazz

mapark

 _Many thanks to those who haven't given up on this story. Real life put me out of writing commission for about four months, but I'm back!_

 _ **The characters depicted in Emergency! are the property of Universal Studios/Mark VII Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters (and mistakes) are mine alone. As always, kudos to my wonderful anonymous beta reader; I appreciate your input!**_

Chapter 5

Marco stretched the reel line around the side of the engine and opened the nozzle. He was surprised at first when Chet didn't join him. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder and relaxed a fraction – Chet was hooking a supply line from their engine to 45's engine. _Their tanks must be dry as a bone by now, after working that one section until the evacuation._

He turned his attention back to hosing down the fireworks scattered on the ground, determined to prevent another accident like the one that had befallen Mike. _I wonder how Mike's doin'… it must be serious, because I've_ _ **never**_ _seen Roy move like that._

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Marco was only dimly aware of two more engines pulling up, with three more lines snaking to join him. He ducked in reflex as another rumble sounded from the warehouse, followed immediately by another wave of projectiles which fell to the ground far short of his location. With nothing to fuel them, the fireworks fizzled and died in puddles of water scattered on the pavement.

Some fireworks exploded in the air, creating a rain of hot glitter. Most of the sparks drifting toward the crews landed impotently in the sodden mess, while others proved more stubborn. A sudden wind whipped a shower of sparks toward another wooden storage shed whose roof fed the sparks into a small flame, which began to grow and take on a new life.

His senses heightened from all that had recently transpired, Captain Stanley noticed the danger immediately. He gestured toward the smoking shed and barked into the handie-talkie, "Engine 16, get an inch-and-a-half on that!"

Marco whooshed in relief as a stream of water poured from his left and extinguished the incipient blaze. He hazarded another glance at the engine and was encouraged that Chet seemed to have things well in hand, acting as temporary engineer. He was less encouraged that both Johnny and Roy were working on Mike, who seemed to be struggling against them. _Man, it must be pretty bad, with both of them involved in the treatment. I wonder why he's fighting?_

He turned his attention back to the fire, training his hose on a group of sheds directly in the path of the escaping fireworks. A tendril of smoke curled from the farthest shed, and he closed the nozzle, adjusted his angle of attack, and moved to cover the new threat. A muffled rumble rose from the cluster of sheds, and the smoke changed from dark grey to black as they ignited en masse.

Marco grinned as the rolling wave of smoke thinned and dissipated under the onslaught of hoses from four companies, and continued to douse the debris littering the pavement. His grin faded as he heard the thin wail of an arriving ambulance. _Godspeed, Mike – I hope things work out okay._

-E!-

Joe Early pointed at the x-rays in the light box. "Here they are," he said to Denise Harlow, his colleague from plastic surgery. "The patient is comfortable, even though he's restless and just wants to get back to work."

Denise raised her eyebrow. "Are you kidding? After _this_ kind of an accident? Does he think he's invincible or something?"

"Not invincible – he's a fireman, and they tend to minimize things that would stop ordinary people in their tracks."

"Huh." Denise frowned as she looked at the x-rays. "Joe, are you sure these are the right films? I mean, there's no facial fractures _anywhere_. I thought you said he was hit in the face with a firework."

Joe gave a soft chuckle. "No, I said he was hit with some _shrapnel_ from an exploding firework. A nasty deep cut with superficial first- and second-degree burns on the edges of the wound." He looked down at his hands, kneading his palm with his thumb. "Frankly, I'm more worried about potential nerve damage than anything else at this point. And it's his _face_ , Denise."

"So you want to work layer by layer, then, repairing the nerves along the way while I take care of the cosmetic aspects?"

"Seems the best plan to me," he replied, stepping over to the sink beside her to begin scrubbing up for the surgery.

Denise patted her hands dry and stepped over to peer at the x-rays again. "He may not be invincible, but he's bloody lucky that shrapnel missed his eye. He must carry a rabbit's foot or something." She turned around as the door opened. "Hey, Dixie. I haven't seen you up here in a while."

The nurse winked. "I've been keeping too busy downstairs, triaging folks for you 'high and mighty' surgeons up here."

Denise's eyes twinkled. "Ouch. I've been mortally wounded and put in my place." She gestured at the patient being wheeled into the operating room. "Friend of yours?" she asked, as Dixie slid gloves onto the surgeon's hands.

Dixie nodded, her expression becoming more serious. "Yeah. His wife, too." She turned to Joe. "She's flying down from visiting relatives in Sacramento, so she's hoping to be here in a couple of hours."

Denise backed into the operating room, guarding her gloved hands. "We'll do our best for him, no worries about that."

Once the others had joined her at the operating table, Denise cut the dressing off Mike's cheek, and bent to examine the wound. She gave a bark of laughter. "Well. I, for one, want to see this man's charm collection. I think we may have come across the luckiest man on Earth." At Dixie's look of skepticism, she indicated the edges of the wound. "I know the burned section looks a bit distressing, but take a look underneath. That piece of shrapnel cut deep, but it must have had a razor-sharp edge, because this is like a surgical incision, not a laceration. It won't be that hard to connect the severed tissues. It will take a couple of hours, by my estimate. Maybe three. Great field work, getting saline on it right away. Must have hurt like hell, but we ought to be able to restore his pretty face almost as good as new."

Joe's eyes twinkled as he leant in to plan his own part of the surgery. "I'll make sure to pass that on to our paramedics when I see them. Roy was a medic in Vietnam before he joined the Fire Department, so it looks like he drew on some of his experiences on the lines."

Denise grinned behind her mask, and stepped next to the instrument tray. "Well, I think I'd like to meet that medic, Joe. Okay, Kiddies, let's get down to business."

-E!-

The main building of the warehouse continued to burn, unchecked, as the sullen rumblings and periodic explosions of more fireworks continued for another hour. The fire crews weren't idle, though, as it appeared that every one of the storage buildings and even some dumpsters had been used to store additional pyrotechnics.

" _Battalion 14 to all units on the south-west exposure. Stand down operations and move to the western side of the main building. Stations 51 and 16, remain at your location and begin overhauling those sheds."_

Marco groaned. _Overhauling, when there's still a fire raging? That seems a bit crazy… but I guess it's better than just standing around, waiting. At least it's something to do to help keep our minds busy._ He shut the nozzle and laid the hose on the ground next to the pile of debris. _Just in case we need it._

He trudged to the engine to get a pike and begin the dull, grimy and thankless job of sifting through the debris for any potential hot spots that could flare into another blaze. _Funny how overhauling never makes it to the recruiting pamphlets. Nothing heroic about digging through crap – but if we didn't do it, there'd be a helluva lot more damage, and the insurance companies would never pay out because they'd call us negligent._

Chet acknowledged Marco's arrival with a nod, then turned to the engine and shut down the water supply to the hose, his calloused fingers lingering on the highly-polished chrome. "Don't worry, Big Red. Mike'll be back with you soon enough… I hope," he murmured in a voice soft enough to be heard only by the remaining members of Station 51.

Marco hefted the pike, took a deep breath, and nudged Chet. He grinned at the look of dismay on Chet's face as he handed him a shovel. "Shall we, partner? We can bug Johnny and Roy about Mike when they get back."

"How come _I_ get the shovel and not the pike?"

Marco chuckled. "Because _I_ got there first. Besides, who's been spending the past half-hour on the business end of a hose?"

Chet's lips tightened in a wry grin. "Point." He hefted the shovel. "Man, _this_ is gonna be fun."

"Hey, it's what they pay us for, isn't it?"

"True enough." Chet cast one more wistful look at the engine, then plodded toward the nearest heap of sodden wreckage. "Crap, what a mess." He gave Marco a sly look as he dug the shovel into the pile of rubbish. "So…. You've got a date with this chick and _then_ you're going out with the Animal? Won't his wife get jealous?"

Marco's cheeks reddened and he coughed, his throat suddenly dry. "Uh… I'm helping him with a… with a special project… that he asked me to keep on the quiet, okay?"

Chet quirked his eyebrow, his skepticism evident in both his posture and the sarcastic tone of his rejoinder, "Uh _huh_?" He snorted. "And does Animal know that this girl Jasmine _might_ interfere with his… plans for you?"

"I think he'll understand. He's a man of the world, and he knows she was interested in me after…" He broke off, darting his eyes away from his partner. _Damn… I didn't mean to mention that…._

Chet demanded, "How come _he_ knows more about this chick than _I_ do?"

"Chet, I just met her _yesterday_."

"Yeah? So how come Animal knows about her?"

Marco sighed. "He and Craig were subbing for the medics at 110's yesterday when Jazz's uncle had a heart attack or something at the wedding reception. They took him to the hospital, and she went with them."

"Ah, so _that's_ where you were moonlighting."

Marco's eyes widened. "Who says I was moonlighting?"

Chet jabbed his finger into Marco's chest. " _You_ did, ya idiot! You said you'd tell me later… well, it's _later_."

"Uh…"

"Look, man, I'm not trying to steal your waiter gig or anything like that." Chet tilted his head, his lips twisted in speculation. "Or were you making the food?"

"No way, man – I don't like cooking for that large a crowd. Except maybe for family."

Chet shrugged. "Look, unless this chick is a princess or something, I don't see that there should be any problem if she digs a fireman." He elbowed Marco lightly. "Hell, we're heroes, ain't we?"

Marco grinned and shifted the pike as he picked up an extinguisher and drowned a tiny flame in the pile of burnt wood. "Yeah, I suppose so. We'll see how things go."

"So tell me about her. What's she look like? Is she hot? And, more important, does she have a friend who might be looking to date a hero?" Chet smoothed his gloved finger along his moustache as he shouldered the shovel and led the way to another heap of smouldering rubbish.

\- A to Z and then some - J is for Jazz -


End file.
